life/art/politics

The Artist Taxi Driver

Like I said in my last post, if I was in Labour I wouldn’t be feeling too hopeful about their chances of talking the Scottish electorate round any time soon, but even from my position outside of the party it’s hard not to feel a little bit soft and gooey any time I hear the Artist Taxi Driver get all worked up about Jeremy Corbyn:

I love the way that the Artist is driven to tell you that Corbyn’s bulletproof, he’s also weirdly protective of him – “the SNP turned up like a firm… Jeremy Corbyn, he’s there like on his own”. It reminds me of Ghostface Killah bigging up Sun God while also making him seem so small as to need his father’s shadow for protection: “This is my son… nigga came out my dick!”

Jeremy Corbyn didn’t come out The Artist Taxi Driver’s dick, but would that rant be any more boastful and tender if there was such a non-metaphorical relationship between them? Could his videos make Corbyn seem any more like an extension of the Taxi Driver’s routines than they already do? I doubt it.

I’m not built for optimism, so I spend more time at the bottom of this wave than at the top, but sometimes it’s good to see someone else riding out the highs, even if none of us can ever quite ignore the possibility of another dip back through the earth, down towards what lies underneath…